


Morning glories make a roof.

by Kaesteranya



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-03
Updated: 2010-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 23:40:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaesteranya/pseuds/Kaesteranya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning glories make a roof.

**Author's Note:**

> This is set sometime after the end of MGS4. The title is taken from the [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=31_days)[**31_days**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=31_days) theme for October 7, 2009.

  
Solid Snake’s dreams are always full of gun smoke and hell fire and screams, but these days, he never fails to wake up to the sound of strips of honey-cured bacon sizzling away on the stove and the sound of morning traffic on the streets just below his window. An immediate reminder, perhaps, of the fact that he’s supposed to live a perfectly normal life now, one that involves paying taxes and flipping channels on the telly and eating junk food – just a few examples of a whole bunch of perfectly normal things, rituals that are worlds apart from what he’s used to, like catching and roasting wild jungle snake over an open fire.

  
See, also: killing people dead before they even realize that he’s there.

  
See, also: fighting gigantic robots.

  
See, also: singlehandedly stopping super (crazy) villains who happen to carry his genes.

  
“Snake? If you’re up, there’s coffee for you.”

  
That’s his cue to get up and go, and it’s kind of funny how it’s somehow easier for him to get on his feet in spite of the fact that his body is no less better than it was during his last operation – he’s not getting any younger, after all, only older and a little frailer by the month. It’s the small things, though, that bring the life back, that jog up those aching joints and clear his failing vision: warm floorboards, sunlight through his window, and the sight of Otacon bustling about in the kitchen, flipping the eggs. Sunny’s over at the kitchen table, setting down the plates – Snake makes it a point to ruffle her hair in greeting as he passes her by.

  
“Good morning.”

  
“Mm.”

  
Perfect time for a cigarette, but oddly, Snake hasn’t been looking for one lately. The ex-soldier goes for the coffee instead, and takes the morning paper from where it’s stuffed in the mail chute. He’s frowning at the editorials by the time Otacon comes around with the food and his usual smile.

  
“Let’s eat?”

  
And it hits him again, how he’s used to it, this thing he can’t name, and it’s kind of… well. Nice. This whole waking up in an actual bed thing. This apartment thing. This Average American Breakfast thing. Having no targets used to make him edgy. Now he’s starting to find it silly how he used to sleep with a gun under his pillow.

  
He’s getting soft, losing that old edge, and somehow? It’s perfectly okay.

  
“…Yeah. Let’s eat.”  



End file.
